Page 25 of A Study in Scarlet Women
Alice rang for tea. Then she and Treadles sat down with the article. They gasped at almost the same time, upon the first mention of Sherlock Holmes. Treadles sucked in another breath as he reached the conclusion of the letter.
“Does this mean that Holmes is well again?” he asked. “Or is this from before his misfortune?”
“I have no way of ascertaining—Holmes remains beyond reach.” Lord Ingram’s gaze strayed to the mantel and lingered on a photograph of the Treadleses and himself, taken on the Isles of Scilly, in those days when Holmes was only a quick note away. “But it doesn’t take a mind of extraordinary caliber to deduce that this must be important to Holmes.
“I understand Mr. Sackville’s death took place outside the Metropolitan Police’s district of authority. But I also understand that itis not unusual for county police to request help from the C.I.D., especially in case of suspicious deaths, where there isn’t enough local expertise to handle the investigation.” He looked back at Treadles. “Inspector, may I ask that you personally inquire into the matter?”
Treadles glanced at his wife, who gave a small nod. “Certainly, my lord. I will send a cable to some friends serving with the Devon Constabulary first thing tomorrow morning.”
Lord Ingram exhaled. “Thank you, Inspector. I am most obliged.”
My Dear Lord Ingram,
As soon as I arrived in Scotland Yard this morning, I learned that the Devon Constabulary has requested assistance from the C.I.D. with regard to Mr. Sackville’s case. I have volunteered my services.
I can only hope I shall not disappoint Sherlock Holmes.
Your servant,
Robert Treadles
Seven
“No letters for you, miss,” said the post office clerk to Charlotte.
Charlotte thanked him, yielded her place, and walked across the cavernous, impersonal interior of the post office. She was fine until she reached the third pillar from the door, and then her lungs collapsed.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she broke out in a cold sweat. Imminent heart failure—she recognized all the symptoms. Dear God, what would happen to Livia? And what would the man she couldn’t stop caring about think, when he learned that she’d met her end at the General Post Office on St. Martin’s Le Grand, of all places?
Two minutes later, still very much on her feet and not lying in a heap on the floor, she began to realize that what ailed her wasn’t the spear point of mortality, but the onset of panic.
She had never felt panic in her life. Livia sometimes did, when she imagined, in excruciating detail, ending up an indigent old maid unwanted by any and all relations, spending her days in a grimy boardinghouse, subsisting on only bread and boiled cabbage.
When Livia fell into one of her states of uncontrollable anxiety—or climbed into one, as Charlotte sometimes thought—Charlottewould bring her a heaping plate of buttered toast and hot tea laced with brandy. She would rub Livia’s back. And then she would read aloud passages fromJane Eyre, Livia’s favorite book, a work Charlotte couldn’t otherwise get through, finding it too dense with high emotion and melodrama.
But even though she did all these sisterly things, she never did feel any of Livia’s fear and anguish. It had seemed utterly incomprehensible that a future decades distant, built of nothing but worst-case scenarios, should hold such sway over the here and now.
Until this moment.
Until the weight of all her choices descended upon her with the force and tonnage of a landslide.
What if the investigation into Mr. Sackville’s death unearthed nothing? What if the truth remained obscured and Livia was forever branded an unprosecuted murderer because of a drunken spat?
Fear swelled, crushing her organs to make room for more of itself. It squeezed the air out of her lungs. It coiled, pythonlike, around her stomach. It forced its way up her windpipe, pushing, expanding, blocking every last sliver of open passage.
She had always been certain that she’d be able to take care of Livia in addition to herself. She never thought she would wreck both their lives simultaneously.
She had not made up out of whole cloth the more numerous opportunities open to women these days. Nor had she conjured from thin air those societies that existed to connect women in need of employment with employers in need of positions filled.
But a good portion of those organizations, for all their good and noble intentions, were thinly funded. Two of those she visited had already closed permanently, with another still nominally in operation, but taking applications only by post. The ones that appeared to be in more robust shape all required letters of character writtenby ladies of good standing—those Charlotte would never have, but those didn’t concern her so much: She was passable at imitating handwriting and did not consider it a moral failing for a woman in her situation to forge her own recommendations.
Of a far greater worry was that to receive help from those societies, she had to first pay a subscription fee, which her already thin wallet could ill afford—not if she wanted to eat and have a roof over her head, too. And then, were she determined enough to pay the fee, she could expect to wait weeks, possibly months, before a suitable position turned up.
She didn’t have that kind of time.
It wasn’t so dire yet. Not at the moment. But just as Livia looked down the years and saw nothing but misery and loneliness at the end of the road, Charlotte could not get rid of this stone-hard dread of coming to the last of her pennies.
Her room and board was nine shilling six a week. After paying for the first two weeks, she had five pounds three and ten left, including what Livia had given her. That amount had been further reduced after the purchase of the daily necessities—not to mention she had to provide for her own lunches.
